XMen: Divided We Fall
by Diamond Jedi
Summary: Former student Samantha Kane returns to the X-Mansion after a rough patch in life.  Upon arrival she encounters some unsettling changes including a very youthful Charles Xavier.  Charles/OC and a hint of Erik/Charles.  Post X-Men: The Last Stand.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **Former student Samantha Kane returns to the X-Mansion after a rough patch in life. Upon arrival she encounters some unsettling changes including a very youthful Charles Xavier. Meanwhile, trouble stirs as the government reconvenes in the wake of the disaster on Alcatraz Island. Plans for mutant hunting machines emerge and the Cure soon begins to wane with alarming side effects.

**Author's Note: **This story is a mixture of X2, The Last Stand, and X-Men: First Class. I saw X-Men: First Class the other day and fell in love with James Mcavoy as a young Charles Xavier. I'll be incorporating his image in the role of the resurrected Charles making this story a romance with my original character. Other character cameos from other films are sure to arise. I have other X-Men fanfics I need to update, and I'm working on them as quickly as possible. But this story has been rolling in my head since I saw the film and I had to get it down on paper.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own X-Men. I wish I did then I'd be rich and content. I own Samantha Kane's character. At least I think I do.

**Rating:** T

**X-Men: Divided We Fall**

_Samantha,_

_It is my sincere hope you will accept my offer, and consider a position here at Westchester Academy. Circumstances, as you may already know, have deprived us of two of our most esteemed colleagues, and dearest companions. I understand the nature of my request and how the very thought of returning to the mansion may fill you with great reservation. Our relationship wasn't always congenial, unpleasant at best, yet I should like to put the unhappy past behind us and press forward to a far more amiable future. _

_In retrospect, I have followed your legal career rather closely, and I'm impressed by the enthusiasm and wit you've shown in the courts, especially where mutant rights are concerned. The students here could gain insight into the legal and political whirlwinds that shape their day to day lives. As mutants, I feel it could one day assist them in whatever trouble they may find themselves in the not too distant future. Such is the trials we face._

_I look forward to receiving an answer from you, which I presume will not take entirely too long due to the current state of your affairs. An introductory salary of $65,000 with an added yearly bonus plus comfortable living arrangements in the faculty wing is included. This proposition, however, will not be extended for too long so I expect to hear from you within the week._

_Sincerely, Charles Francis Xavier_

() () () ()

At first Samantha Kane was led to believe the letter was a forgery. It couldn't be Charles. It was impossible. He was dead. Vaporized or so she'd heard. Doubt mingled with an ardent suspicion drove her to seek out a forensic analyst—in truth a former professional forger—an old client by the name of Connie Baskin. She confirmed. His signature was a spot on match. Hardly convinced she took a cab back to her house—a white two story Neo-colonial residing in a prominent gated community—now in foreclosure and heading to the auction block.

She felt no sense of homecoming as she entered a spacious, but vacant foyer. Her face scrunched in disappointment as she noted the lack of furnishings that once decorated the large home. The men had worked quickly, collecting items buyers had purchased during a public sale at her displeasure. All that remained were her clothes, gathered and stuffed in suitcases and $900 in her bank account. The battle to fight for her house had severely drained her finances.

There'd been no hope. She realized that the moment her secret was revealed. Mutant. Everything—her life—had all gone south.

Quickly taking to the floor, she cradled the single sheet of paper on her lap, staring for what seemed like hours at the signature till she'd memorize every curve and stroke of each character from the alphabet. Once again, she compared it to a Christmas card she received every year without fail from the old man. Crumpling the paper, she opened her Coach purse and dug out her planner, and started to flick through the pages to seek out a number.

Her pride stung as she eventually located a number scribbled in the back and in the upper right hand corner. She swore she wouldn't go back and bit her bottom lip as she took out her IPhone dialed the number. No service. She gawked at her IPhone and remembered it had been disconnected. She'd not paid the bill.

"Shit," she screamed, tossing the device in all fury, watching as it sailed through the air and hit the wall in a loud crack. Clawing her fingers through her raven hair, she snatched her purse and left the house. It was a long walk to shopping district. Low on cash, she certainly could not hail for another cab and without a phone—she snorted in aggravation. Glimpsing to the right, she frowned deeply as she stared at the empty driveway. Repo men had taken away her Mercedes CL yesterday.

The busy downtown area in Washington D.C roared with life. The afternoon sun blazed in the sky like golden orb. Beads of sweat dripped down her forehead when she finally arrived at the local library; the last and only place in the whole city that appeared to carry a pay phone.

Running up the steps, she bumped shoulders with an unsuspecting man coming down the stairs in haste. The physical contact lit up her brain like a television screen as his life story poured in her mind. A vision emerged. Painful. A woman bearing bruises on her face crying in the apparition.

The distraction led her to almost slip as she took a faulty step on the stairs. Gritting her teeth, she straightened, fighting off the offensive vision that was now burning in her mind. Inside the library was cool and quiet with people moving silently about the massive building. Finding a shaded, secluded corner by the payphone, she took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

A minute passed before she was able to fashion rational thought and picked up the phone. She wiped the ear and mouth piece on her blue blazer and fed quarters in the meter before dialing. As her hand curled about the receiver, images bombarded, filling her mind yet again with the day to day workings of previous folks who'd used the payphone. She centered her thoughts and caught her breath. Her brow crinkled as she strived to pull her sanity together.

It was getting harder for her to clear her head. Harder to purge her brain of the mental images that invaded her mind. It used to be easy…now every contact was chore. What was happening to her? Perhaps it was wise to return to the one place where she could master her powers. To allow the Professor liberties, and let him help her hone her mutation. Nevertheless, she was anxious. Her heart began to beat fast as the line tolled. She hoped the Professor wouldn't answer. It would be far too eerie to hear his voice…shocking at best.

"Westchester Academy, this is Ororo Monroe."

Samantha let out a small chuckle, her lip curling, relief coming over her. Why wasn't she surprise to hear her voice on the other end? "Storm?"

"Who is this?" Ororo replied, an edge of distrust in her tone.

"It's me, Samantha…Samantha Kane."

"Sam? God…it's been….been…"

Samantha released a long, drawn moan, combing hair that had fallen in her face back. "I know...years."

"Why are calling?" Ororo's tone sounded like an accusation. "You swore you'd never come back or call."

"I know," she said lowering her head, resting it against the privacy wall. "I've said a lot of things."

() () () ()

Home, 1407 Graymalkin Lane, Salem Center, or so it appeared. The exterior surroundings were precisely the same. An opulent manor house built on a thousand square acres of land on the northeast corner of Westchester County. The Scots Baronial style architecture was still impressive to behold; tickling her memory of the first time she arrived at the mansion.

A young girl of twelve, confused and reeling from the abandonment of her parents; she came at the Professor's bidding without any real faith or prospect of stopping the visions that poured into her mind at the onset of her mutation. Now, she was here for monetary reason. Broke. She had less than $25 in her pocket after a bus ticket and cab fare had dwindled her finances.

"No turning back now," she said to herself and gathering her belongings, she marched through the black, iron gate and down the lane to front steps. The placed had not changed in sixteen years as she marked the old fountain bubbling with an endless flow of water and caught the faint whiff of jasmine in the air. Massive oak and elm trees swayed as though to bid her welcome.

Setting her burdens down on the steps, she pushed the doorbell. It resounded like a host of church bells. She leaned in the doorway and took off her shoe. Her feet were killing her and her body ached. Lack of sleep on the bus and sorry food left her pinning for a good meal and a nice warm bath. Sluggish, she leaned in the doorway.

Movement speared her to life. Tugging on her shoe, she straightened as she marked a shadowy figure making their way to the front door. Samantha made all efforts to make herself look presentable, but knew she'd look like a woman whose life had completely fallen apart.

The door opened.

He was cute. That was her first impression. He was too old to be a student, but young enough to be one of the teachers at the institute. He stared at her with dreamy blue eyes, an air of recognition arising in the cerulean pupils. His nose and cheeks were ever so lightly dusted with brown freckles; difficult to see in the muted light to where he stood, but in this close proximity they were quite defined.

He was short for a man, but a least two inches taller than her, putting him about 5'9. He had a wealth of wavy brown hair and an endearing bow shape mouth. His nose was straight with a slight raise at bridge but overall he was one attractive package.

"H-Hello," Samantha cleared her throat, embarrassed that she might've been staring and had made no attempt to introduce herself. "I'm Samantha, Samantha Kane. I-uh, I'm here in regards to a l-letter—um—"

"Yes, I know, come in—please." He stepped out of her path and that was when she noted he walked with a cane and a slight limp. "May I help you?"

"No!" She blushed, discomforted. She hadn't meant to reply so loudly. "No," she dipped and picked up her luggage. "You—I-I don't want to overwhelm you."

He smiled cutely. "It's nothing," he reached down to take one of the bags. Samantha wanted to stop him but he was obviously determined to lend her a hand. "My legs grow weary when I walk and stand for too long that's all." He closed the door and moved to guide her through the house.

Samantha took in the interior. The place was exactly the same. Rich, dark wood paneling, hardwood floors and antique furnishings decorated the spacious interior. She inhaled, breathing in the strong scent of pine, and knew someone had recently polished the wood with a cleaner. They climbed the steps to the second and then third floor and turned down a long hallway. It was unusually quiet, and then she remembered that it was the middle of summer. Students with a home to return to had long departed while others (like herself once) lingered behind.

"Nothing's changed," she said softly.

"Were you expecting something different?"

She titled her head to right, gazing at him as he glanced behind his shoulder in her direction from time to time. "Your accent…it's Scottish…isn't it."

"Yes."

She grinned. "What's a Scotsman doing all the way here?"

"It's a long story."

"Well—I'm not going anywhere."

"So I see," He gestured with his chin to her load of bags. "I was surprised you answered the letter. I had a little doubt."

Samantha narrowed her eyes, wondering what stories the others had told him about her. "Why would you? D-do you work closely with the Professor?" she asked, her eyes darting in every direction, wondering when the dead would arise to make its presence.

He chuckled, "In a way."

She was hardly amused. The last thing she wanted was her image to be tainted, especially where strangers were involved. True, she was never the model student, but that didn't give the old man the right too belittle her whenever the opportunity arose.

"Be at ease, Samantha. I would never project you in a negative light." He said, stopping just before a closed door to look her in the face.

"W-Why? What's he said about me?"

He looked away momentarily, before staring deeply into her eyes. _Samantha, it's me Charles_.

Horrorstricken, she let out a startled cry and took a step back. There was no denying the powerful, iconic voice that echoed in her mind. "N-No," she stammered, stumbling all over her luggage, and falling to the floor in a un-lady like manner.

"Samantha, it's alright," Charles shifted the cane to another hand, extending out the left to help her up.

She knocked it away, "No! Y-You're young!"

"You have to understand—"

"U-Understand! You're—you're young! How the fuck did you—!"

The Professor frowned, dropping his hand to his side. "Please mind you're language, there are still children present."

"Don't tell me what to—"

Her head snapped to left when someone kicked open the door and bellowed, "You wanna keep down out there! Some of us are trying to sleep!" Samantha heard faint murmurings of condemnation before a beautiful African woman with vibrant white hair came out, tucking her arms into the sleeve a of pullover grey sweater.

"Professor?" she asked a question in her eyes, "what's going on?"

"S-so it's true!" Samantha cried out.

"Sam?" Ororo gazed at the woman on the floor. "You're early."

"Storm, y-you know about this? You know about what he's done?"

Ororo's face took on a soft appeal. "Yes I do. It's complicated, but you have to understand—"

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

The black woman came over to assist Samantha. "Let's get you settled in then we can discuss this when you've calm down."

"I don't plan to get comfortable," Samantha jerked her arm away, pulling herself to a stand, she glared at Ororo. "I don't think I will be staying after all."

"Where will you go?" Charles asked, both hands on his cane, standing casually to one side.

"That's not you're concern." She bent to collect her bags and headed towards the main stairwell.

"I hardly believe you'd go far with only $25 in your purse. And with all your credit cards maxed out, I doubt you'll be able to get a room at a hotel."

Samantha swerved on her heels, bringing a rush of pain to her already bruised feet. "You read my thoughts without my permission." She darkened. "You are Charles Xavier."

Charles came forward, his intense blue eyes boring into her, leaving her alarmingly unsettled. "Sam, I'm not your enemy, nor do I desire to be. However awkward this situation appears to be I did it with the best intentions."

"I bet," she replied snidely and turned her eyes to the door. "Is this my room?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Good." Scraping up her belongings, she charged to the door, straining under the weight of the bags.

"We'll talk later Sam," he said right before the door slammed shut and was bolted from the inside.

"Are sure it was wise to bring her back here?" Ororo questioned after a while. "She's loyal to no one. She thinks only of herself."

"Everyone deserves the right to a second chance Storm. You know that better than anyone," Charles said.

"She won't be too happy when she discovers the real reason she's here."

"All in due time. Now, how are things going on in the lower levels?" He asked his mind linking to a being residing in sub-chambers beneath the school.

Ororo's countenance grew somber. "The same. There's been no change in her condition. Do really think this is going to work? Do you really think Samantha can help?"

Charles released a sigh. "I hope so."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: **Former student Samantha Kane returns to the X-Mansion after a rough patch in life. Upon arrival she encounters some unsettling changes including a very youthful Charles Xavier. Meanwhile, trouble stirs as the government reconvenes in the wake of the disaster on Alcatraz Island. Plans for mutant hunting machines emerge and the Cure soon begins to wane with alarming side effects.

**Author's Note: **This story is a mixture of X2, The Last Stand, and X-Men: First Class. I saw X-Men: First Class the other day and fell in love with James Mcavoy as a young Charles Xavier. I'll be incorporating his image in the role of the resurrected Charles making this story a romance with my original character. Other character cameos from other films are sure to arise. I have other X-Men fanfics I need to update, and I'm working on them as quickly as possible. But this story has been rolling in my head since I saw the film and I had to get it down on paper.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own X-Men. I wish I did then I'd be rich and content. I own Samantha Kane's character. At least I think I do.

**Rating: **T

**X-Men: Divided We Fall**

The heat was still on, but it was not as intense. At least not in New York where Erik Lehnsherr, Master of Magnetism, fled with his tail tucked between his legs. His defeat at Alcatraz Islands left him without a cause and devoid of the power he wielded with great fury. All that remained was the empty husk of an old man hiding in fear in a tiny apartment in the Brooklyn Heights area. He had been there for months, hiding like a coward.

Weeks after the devastation that leveled the once infamous prison to rubble, news networks circulated his picture. He was demonized as the most hated and wanted man in the United States. A dangerous terrorist that had to be brought to justice. Dangerous. A sour grin curled the edge of his lips, emphasizing deep heavy set wrinkles shaped over the years. He would laugh if he had the strength, but he did not.

If humanity saw of the shape of things. How he was a now a defenseless old man with only a little bit of time left on his hands. Erik could hear their laughter, the mockery that scorned him. Fear returned. Uncertainty. And the shadow of death followed. He grew afraid of the oncoming night. Terrified they would track him to this location, and break down his doors as the Nazis once did in 1940's Poland. He found himself stalking the rooms of his tiny apartment at night, striking at every shadow that moved. He hated the darkness, hated the unease that filled him.

Hated feeling weak and defenseless…again.

Upon daybreak, he was always in much better spirits, and began his morning in the same routine. A boiled egg, toasted rye bread spread with humus, and mixed fruit. He would read the newspaper from cover to cover before venturing out. He was careful to avoid his neighbors. His face was too approachable and too grandfatherly to trust with those who lived close by. The air was rich and warm as the heat of summer settled in the city. He took the usual path to promenade that gave a spectacular, panoramic view of Manhattan Island.

A cluster of people was already gathered on the boardwalk. Joggers and cyclers swept by him while college students gathered in a nearby coffee shop. Tourist snapped pictures and young lovers basked in the glow of each other's company. Erik found himself watching couples more often as the days of solitude passed. It was a poignant reminder of what he once had and failed to maintain. He had one disastrous marriage on his list and a stream of unfulfilling relationships.

The only lover that suited him well was his thirst for vengeance and power and liberation for his mutant brothers.

He sank onto a vacant bench and pulled out a bag of crushed crackers. He sprinkled some of the crumbs on the ground and watched the pigeons battle for every tasty morsel. He could see the irony. Such was the end of his days. He just never imagined it would be like this.

Glancing to the left, he saw two men around his age setting up a table and chairs. One of them placed a chess board on the table and began to position the pieces. A pang of grief hit him hard. The scene reminding him of his old friend. No matter the circumstance, he and Charles could always sit down and play a good game—as though nothing had changed.

He swallowed the lump in his throat, refusing to surrender into guilt. Charles was dead. There was nothing that could be done about it.

Dumping the bag of crumbs, he rose and went to the local mart to purchase some food and necessities. He headed home to wear out the rest of the day, knowing tomorrow he would repeat same thing over again.

() () () () ()

Erik felt different one morning, strangely rejuvenated. Four glasses of wine to calm his nerves the previous night he made for bed at ten past eight, determined to get a full night of rest and peace. When he awoke there was far better clarity in eyes; the aches that troubled him as he scrambled out of bed were gone.

"Strange," he said, stretching his back and made his way to the bathroom. He took a quick shower and stood in front of the mirror to shave, frowning at the image staring back at him. He noted the abundant silvery grey hair grateful it hadn't fallen out as such was the case for most men of his age. His eyes still held a glint of determination, only this time the heavy bags and crow's feet were less defined. In fact, his face had a somewhat youthful zeal.

"Strange."

() () () () ()

"I don't think she's coming down Professor," Ororo said as the huge, antique grandfather clock chimed the hour of six. She sat on the sofa in the Professor's study, nursing a cup of Chamomile tea, a book on Botanical gardens open on her lap.

"I suspected as much," he answered.

Charles sat at his desk, bent forward, pouring over his stamp collection. He'd kept them since he was eight. He couldn't understand why. He never liked collecting stamps, but it was a hobby of his father, as it was his grandfather. A nuclear scientist, Brian Xavier constantly traveled, and rarely spent time with him. Stamps were the old man's passion, and so became his. Whenever chance brought them together, stamps were the subject of the conversation.

"She's not staying upstairs out of spite," he raised his head to look at Ororo. "She's sleeping."

"She must be really tired."

"Among other things," he picked up a pair of tweezers to remove one extremely rare stamp. Under a magnifying glass, he examined a 24 cent inverted Jenny stamp. A smile curled his lips. It belonged to his grandfather. An unassuming article in his day, who would thought it would become priceless and be worth millions—$2.8 million to be exact. He placed it back inside the protective plastic and closed the book. Leaning back in his chair, Charles placed the book inside a safe in his desk and sealed it shut.

"You should find a better place to put your safe, Professor," Ororo said. "The safe in the desk is a bit too obvious."

"Who would steal from me," he said, laughter in his tone, "I can sense a thief a mile away."

Ororo laid her book down, looking up at the face that bore no resemblance of her mentor, and yet his heart and mind were the same. "Only a mile? Used to be fifty miles."

Dismay furrowed Charles' brow as he took up his cane and stood to walk and take a seat opposite Ororo. She watched him pour a cup of tea, frowning that she might've upset him. He sensed her concern and forced a genial smile. "It's coming back."

"It's taking time."

He sighed, stirring his tea. "The transference of my thoughts and powers Storm has been somewhat detrimental. After all, this body is not my own."

"Have you figured out what you're going to say to Samantha when the time comes?" she asked.

He shook his head and sipped his tea. "I don't need to compose some well thought out speech where this is concerned. Like you and everyone else, I simply going to tell her the truth."

"The whole truth?"

His eyebrows rose. "No, not yet."

"She's not one of us Charles," Ororo said. "She won't understand."

Charles narrowed his eyes, titling his head. "This has nothing to do with Samantha being one of us Storm."

"She won't like the idea of being a pawn in this venture we're about to undertake." She moved to the edge of her seat. "What if it doesn't work? You'll recall Sam didn't stick around long enough to perfect her powers. She left the minute she had the chance. What if this has a dire effect on her?"

"I'll be there to help her," said Charles.

"But you're not as powerful as you once were."

"You're focusing on the negative Ororo. I can feel my powers are increasing each day. Dr. MacTaggert will be flying in to lend a helping hand sometime next week, and we still don't know if Samantha will remain here as part of the faculty for the next school year."

Ororo slouched back into the couch, mockery in her voice. "Like you said, she can't get far on twenty-five bucks." She saw the subtle expression of disapproval on his face and looked away, eyes slipping close. Could he blame her for her cold manner? It had been a long taxing year. One of death and heartache and an indeterminate future.

The Professor's death had left a burden to great for her shoulders to bear and a harsh reality check that she was not the strong capable leader she believed herself to be. In the past, she'd constantly challenged Scott, undermined him in the beginning when the Professor elected him leader of the X-Men. She felt cheated, somehow assumed she was a far better choice.

She realized she'd been wrong. If not for Logan, she couldn't tell how she would manage.

"How's that relationship going if I may ask?" Ororo stared at Charles bug eyed, and he gave her a rueful smile. "I'm sorry, I couldn't help it."

"It's going," she said, letting out a sigh, her shoulders rising and falling. "Sometimes, I-I—"

"Yes?" he encouraged.

"I think he's with me to fill a void," she wrung her hands together nervously.

"You think he's still in love with Jean."

She said nothing for a moment before admitting, "I don't know, but I do fear the weeks to come."

Charles saddened. "I never knew you to worry Storm."

"You don't know what it was like when you weren't here," she whispered.

He held her gaze, his mouth firming. "Yes I do. I'm sorry."

() () () () ()

"That's a heavy plate you got there," Logan said, entering the kitchen a day and a half later and bumped into mysterious woman chest deep in the refrigerator. She had long, black hair, a slim figure, and a good pair of legs. On the counter sat a plate of food and it was piled high. He must have frightened her because she let out a squeal, hitting her on the glass shelf as she backed out.

Samantha's face twisted in pain, and her hand clamped the back of her head. "Jesus," she hissed as the pain smarted. "A head's up would be nice."

"I think you got that already," he said, crossing the table to a large buffet spread that was already awaiting him. He awoke this morning with an intense hunger. Abandoning Storm to sleep he came downstairs fix himself a mountain of food before going back upstairs and waking her up for round three; if she was interested.

He never expected to encounter a new face at the mansion. He'd never seen her before, but from what Ororo told him and the commotion he'd heard yesterday, this woman lived here once. "So," he said strolling casually to the center of the kitchen. "You're the new guy?"

"Guy no," replied Samantha, after the pain had subsided, continued to rummage in the fridge, "new maybe."

Logan arched a thick, bushy brow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means nothing." She gave out an exultant burst of mirth once she located the item of her hunt. She pulled out a can of whip cream and squirted a thick layer on her pancakes. She turned, taking in for the first time, the other person with a craving for carbs this early in the morning.

He was big. No. Big was an understatement. He was huge, strongly built with powerful, bulging muscles. He was hairy like a shag carpet with questionable hairstyle. No matter how peculiar his sense of style, there was a manner about that sent a momentary chill up her spine. He wasn't the kind of guy one should mess on a good or bad day.

Samantha couldn't help but comment, her eyes creeping up to the crop of hair cut in a ridiculous fashion. "Interesting hairdo," she said, laughter tickling the back of her throat.

Logan glared. "Go fuck yourself," he snarled.

She dropped her head, her lips contorting into a pout. She expected that; it wasn't exactly a nice thing she said. She watched him take a plate and start to slap bacon, eggs, sausages, loading it on full. Someone obviously didn't care about cholesterol. But who was she to judge. Her plate was almost as large as his. When he paid her no further attention she left the kitchen to return to her room. One the way, she saw the imposter cane and all limping down the hallway.

"Good morning, Samantha," he said cordially.

She didn't answer him. She was in no mood for conversation. She'd slept almost thirty-six hours, her stomach was growling in angry protest, demanding it be fed.

Charles wasn't affronted by her rudeness as he watched her head for the stairs. "I'd like to have a word with you after breakfast if you don't mind." Still, she said nothing. "I expect to see you in my office no later than eleven."

He stiffened at the sound of her bare feet pounding up the stairs.

"She's a piece of work. Where the hell did you find her?"

Charles stared at the barren staircase, pondering Ororo's words, wondered if she was right. "She was once a student of mine Logan."

"You sure can pick 'em Chuck. A bit bitchy but she has a nice ass."

"Logan!" The Professor cried in start.

"Don't tell me you didn't notice. You've been staring at the stairs for a long time." Logan said.

"S-she's my student."

Logan made a face, narrowing his eyes. "Correction, former student, and it's not like it ain't working for you anymore."

"Don't be ridiculous," Charles snapped, outraged by the crude notion Wolverine was insinuating. "Furthermore you shouldn't be looking at other women that way or should I enlighten Storm on this behavior."

"Hey, I can look just don't touch," Logan scoffed. "Besides I'm as normal as the next guy, you should give it a try." He stalked to the stairs, plate and a glass of beer in hand. "Remember, the gym later, physical therapy. Give that scrawny body of yours a workout."

Charles gripped his cane, recalling the last session where Logan had given him a workout. He was barely able to get out of bed for days. "I'm not scrawny," he shouted after him.

"Keep telling yourself that," Logan fired back.

() () () () ()

Samantha jumped at the sound of banging on her door. She rolled to her side and gawked at the red numbers situated in the alarm clock on the nightstand. Quarter past one. The banging resumed. Annoyed, she got up, stumbling to the door. Opening it to a slither of space, she peered out. It was the guy she met in the kitchen earlier in the morning.

"Yes," she said angrily.

"The Professor wants to see you in his office."

She darkened. "Which one?"

Logan snorted. "Look, he told me you'd give me trouble. Don't. I ain't in the fucking mood so put some clothes on and let's go."

This obviously was one battle she surely wasn't going to win. Retreating, she went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face in order to revive her body. She brushed her teeth and with three stroke of the brush roughly pulled her hair into a ponytail.

She came back into her room. Bags piled the floor in the comer. She'd barely unpack, desiring a bed more than anything else. Unzipping one suitcase, she tugged on jeans and a camisole shirt.

"Lead the way," she instructed when she finally emerged.

"Took long enough," Logan barked.

"Are you always this pleasant around women?"

"Not with ones who mock my hair."

Samantha shrugged easily. "I didn't know you were sensitive."

Growling, he turned and walked with quick strides to the end of hall. Samantha managed to keep his pace but it was an effort. Together they went down the stairs and turned right. Logan was amazed by her knowledge of the household and briefly forgot she'd live here before. How much had change since her day.

"He told you eleven," said Logan.

"I'm not one to take orders."

"Explains the attitude," he hummed as they stopped in front of two large double doors. "A lousy sex life." Samantha blistered and he grinned walking away.

"Asshole," she seethed and faced the doors. "Let's get this over with."

She turned the knob and entered the room. It was unchanged. Consistent. Orderly, as the Professor always was. A great many books, quite a few first editions, took up an entire wall on the left side. Dark elm fashioned the shelves and walls. The furniture, at the most, was antiques brought in from various parts of the world. Up ahead, a young man sat at a desk looking over documents.

Samantha's eyes dimmed. Regardless of what others said she couldn't bring herself to believe this person was Charles Xavier.

"You were never one to knock before entering, Samantha," Charles said, not lifting his head.

"I was never one to believe in the afterlife," she answered coolly. "Yet here we are."

Charles set his eyes on her. "Here we are."

"You said you wanted to talk."

"Two hours ago," he said.

"I didn't commit to this little meeting," she stated, leaning back into the door.

"I didn't ask to speak to you so that we could fight."

Her brow arched, widening her eyes. "Who's fighting?"

Charles dropped back into the chair, sensing the undeniable dislike that emanated from her. "You still haven't forgiven me."

"I don't know," she pushed away from the door, going to his desk in slow, easy steps. "Nothings beats having a criminal conviction on your head to deter one's future."

"You weren't in any form of trouble, I made sure of that," he stated.

"Don't bullshit me," she hissed, eyes filled with fury. "I almost got busted. You pressed me to intern at that company during the summer. You knew what my powers were capable of. The right files in my hand and I could see the future outlook of that company's stock. When I came home all you needed to do was peek inside my head. Talk about taking insider trading to a whole new level."

"I had them drop the charges."

She squinted her eyes, nodding her head slowly. "Of course you did. You're rotten…down to your core. You would use your powers, mine, or anyone else's to ensure your fucking trust fund wouldn't evaporate. But when it comes to putting us mutants on top…you have a goddamn conscience." She made a gesture with her hand as she glared at him. "And now this…this body you've taken. Who was he? Did he have a name? Did you even care to find out?"

"His name was Jamie McPherson. He was a patient of Dr. Moira MacTaggert, a friend and colleague of mine, and he'd been rendered clinically brain dead for the last ten years."

"So, you just took his body...just like that. Is no one safe from you?"

"I did what I thought was right at the time," he said in a low voice, not certain how long he could withstand her abuse, even if she spoke the truth. "I thought if I returned I could help Jean and prevent the horrors that occurred on Alcatraz."

"You always appear to have an excuse for everything you do."

Charles frowned. "Why did you come back Samantha if you sole goal is torment me?"

"Well, someone had to do it. You've got blinders on everything one else." She let a frustrated puff, tucking a wayward strand of black hair behind her ear. "I need the money," she admitted. "I'm broke, my life is in the crapper, and I'm a mutant. Three strikes, I'm out."

"With all that said and done I hope you'll generate some personal level of respect to me as you're employer."

She forced a smile. "Miracles happen."

* * *

><p>Thanks to all my reviewers. I hope you'll like this one.<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary: **Former student Samantha Kane returns to the X-Mansion after a rough patch in life. Upon arrival she encounters some unsettling changes including a very youthful Charles Xavier. Meanwhile, trouble stirs as the government reconvenes in the wake of the disaster on Alcatraz Island. Plans for mutant hunting machines emerge and the Cure soon begins to wane with alarming side effects.

**Author's Note: **This story is a mixture of X2, The Last Stand, and X-Men: First Class. I saw X-Men: First Class the other day and fell in love with James Mcavoy as a young Charles Xavier. I'll be incorporating his image in the role of the resurrected Charles making this story a romance with my original character. Other character cameos from other films are sure to arise. I have other X-Men fanfics I need to update, and I'm working on them as quickly as possible. But this story has been rolling in my head since I saw the film and I had to get it down on paper.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own X-Men. I wish I did then I'd be rich and content. I own Samantha Kane's character. At least I think I do.

**Rating: **T

**X-Men: Divided We Fall**

Charles saw a flash to his right and shifted, seconds too late. An iron fist softened by a black boxing glove slammed into his face, sending him weaving and staggering about the boxing ring. His ears rang and his vision doubled. Disoriented, he grunted and struggled to regain control, only to suffer another hit in the face. The blow rocked him. He fell hard to mat, crying out in anguish.

Logan stood above him, his chest rising and falling, a sheen of sweat coating his naked, muscular torso. "Come on Chuck," he panted, "You're making this too damn easy."

"Am I?" Charles grunted, accepting the hand Wolverine offered him. He came to his feet only to be thrown suddenly in the opposite direction of the ring. "What was that for?"

"Never trust your opponent," Logan stated, eyes coming close together, his face all serious. "Never take what they offer you."

Charles twisted his lips and felt a harsh sting on the inside and tasted a tiny pinch of blood. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Get up, we're not done." Logan reached down and dragged Charles to his feet. He waited until the Professor appeared stable and smashed his boxing gloves together. It was the signal that they commence their bout.

"Logan," Charles voiced as they danced around each other, arms up in a fighting stance. "When I imagine physical therapy, I didn't picture getting my face smashed in as part of the process."

"A good workout comes in all shapes and sizes," he said, faking a move, grinning at how gullible and scared Charles was. "That body needs a lesson in pain to build sensitivity and reflexes." He threw a punch and his smile grew large when Charles dodged.

"Take it is easy, this is first and last body I plan to take possession of." He made a weak attempt at a punch, grazing Logan's chin. The big man laughed inciting the Professor, grating his nerves.

"Ah, come one, Storm hits harder than you."

"I'm not accustomed to hostility, Logan," Charles explained, mopping the sweat off his forehead. "I've spent forty years in a wheelchair."

"Well," Logan taunted his lip curling into a snicker. "Your days of filing for disability checks are over."

The Professor made a face, his mouth contorting at Wolverine's tactless joke. "You have a dark sense of you humor…much like Ms. Kane." He shielded his torso, blocking to jabs to his right side.

"Oh yeah," Wolverine's eyebrows lifted in amusement. "How was your meeting with that little minx earlier?"

"Admirable," Charles muttered. He took a hit to the face but recovered far more quickly. "Careful, this isn't my body."

"So you've said," Logan snickered, "but that didn't stop you did it."

"Now you're beginning to sound like her."

"What's the story with you and her anyway? From what I can sense, she seems to hate your guts but you're such a likeable guy, Chuck."

Charles paused momentarily, before open up to the truth, while blocking Logan's punching and laying two in his ribs. "I once took advantage of her naiveté. She's pretty angry about it."

Logan jerked, stunned. "What? You didn't try to mind fuck her or something?"

Anger swelled in Charles, his face turning beet red. "You know your mouth is just as foul as hers! And I don't appreciate what you're implying."

"Hey?" Wolverine threw up his gloved hands in defense. "I'm only guessing here. I mean you were once her teacher and she a student, you might've…"

"I did nothing of the kind," the Professor snapped. "It was a principle of money."

Clucking his tongue, Logan shook his head. "That always put a damper on relationships."

"We were not in a relationship, now can we _please_ finish this."

Smirking, Wolverine bashed his gloves together. "You're funeral, again."

"Hilarious."

Moving to the left, Logan came in fast and strong with a series of punches. Charles managed to evade the blows, yet suffered a hard crunch to the abdomen. He dropped like a fly, winded. He put out a hand to stop Wolverine's advancement.

"That's enough," he screamed. "I've had enough!"

Logan grinned triumphantly, helping Charles to his feet, slapping him on the back. "Until next time, Chuck."

The Professor gave him a wild eye expression, panting heavily. "I don't think so," and Logan let out a hearty chuckle.

"Come on let's take a load off."

Just as the pair scaled the ropes and climbed down the small steps to head to the showers an alarm sounded. Charles and Logan looked at each other, instinctively knowing what sparked the distress signal. They raced with all speed out of the gym, Logan much faster, while Charles strived to get his legs to move quickly. However years of atrophy had robbed Jamie McPherson of muscular strength.

They hustled in all speed to a convex section of the wall in the east wing. Charles scanned his fingerprint and immediately a door slid to one side revealing an elevator. "What's happening?" Logan demanded.

"It's Jean." Charles replied as they rode the lift down to the lower levels.

At the ding of elevator they ran down a silvery blue hallway, arriving at the medical wing at the end of the hall. Entering, Charles saw Storm standing beside a lone figure shaking erratically in bed. A heart monitor was beeping noisily and medical cabinets shook involuntarily.

"She's going into cardiac arrest," she cried, tears swelling in her blue eyes.

"Logan, get her started on oxygen and bring the defibrillator!" Charles instructed. "Storm, I want 2cc of epinephrine, stat."

"Yes," and she rushed to do his bidding.

Charles circled to the head of the bed, combing his fingers gently into a mass of auburn hair. He bent low, his face hovering two inches above her forehead. "Jean," he said his voice soft and coaxing. "I know you're inside there somewhere. You must help me. Open your mind to me."

"I've got it," Ororo said coming with a needle, releasing the air out of the vial.

"Do it."

She injected the fluid into the peripheral cannula IV inserted in a vein and taped on Jean's wrist. Life lines spiked on the monitor and the heart machine screamed crazily. "Oh god," cried Storm. "She's crashing!"

"Logan, start her on the oxygen. Storm, perform CPR and if necessary use the defibrillator."

While both parties worked on Jean, he leaned forward again, closing his eyes. He began his search for Jean's conscious but was swept into overwhelming darkness. Here, he was Charles Xavier again, in his original form. He tried to press through the blackness but his mind was not strong enough; there was no way for him to shatter the barrier holding Jean hostage.

He blinked back to reality, pleased to see that Logan and Ororo had Jean stabilized. He looked at the monitor, her heart line flicked at a normal pace and then he turned to the others. Logan looked discouraged. Storm's eyes held a pinch of hope. "Did you find her?"

Charles shook his head. "No," he sighed heavily, clawing his hand into a mass of damp hair. "I'm still not strong enough. At the strength level I'm in it would take another telepath to help me enter Jean's mind."

"Samantha…" Ororo suggested.

"No," he said, he was not going to enforce this problem on her, least not at the moment. They'd come to a mutual understanding this afternoon. A level of respect was established. He certainly wasn't going to undo it all on the slim chance that together they might be able to restore Jean. She hadn't even tapped into her telepathic potential. And would she allow him to instruct her.

He looked down at his most promising student, brushing his hand across her forehead. She was pale, cold to the touch but alive. Logan's intervention at Alcatraz had done more than stop the Phoenix, in some way, it damaged her psyche. The pain and cruel reality at what she was doing had been too much. She returned to mansion severely injured but succumbed to a coma hours later. She had been that way for almost a year.

"We need her Charles. You claim she has potential, almost like Jean."

"She isn't ready Storm. The mind isn't a box for anyone to enter it's a beehive over a million billion mechanism. For someone like Samantha who's never opened herself fully to that part of her mutation, it could be dangerous. I have to train her."

"Is that why that woman's here?" Logan demanded.

Charles turned his attention to Wolverine, nodding his head. "Yes, Samantha Kane has the mutant ability of psychometry with latent telepathic capability."

"Whoa," Logan interrupted, looking dazed and confused. "Psycho—what?"

"Psychometry, Logan," Charles clarified. "She's able to touch any object or person and instantly know their history. With inanimate objects, she can see its previous owners, events that took place around the object, and the possible future of the object and its future owners."

"Holy shit!"

"Yes," said the Professor, "indeed."

"Wait a minute?" Logan hardened his gaze on Charles, folding his arms. "Is that the cause of this dispute between the two of you?"

"Yes," he admitted. "Back in 1994, the stock market was precarious as were my finances."

"Professor, you didn't," Storm said softly.

"I had to make a decision, Ororo. The mansion was being foreclosed on and tax on the property was skyrocketing. Some of my interests had collapsed diminishing my finances I would've had to close the school. All of my life's work, a secure place for mutants to dwell, gone."

Ororo stared at the Professor in disbelief, hardly fathoming the man she upheld as her mentor could be so manipulative. "So, when she intern at Microsoft and they were unveiling their newest software program. You jumped on it especially when she could see its promising outcome."

Charles looked away, becoming extremely uncomfortable. He felt their disdain flowing out of them in waves. He knew there was an unscrupulous side to himself. It was something he wasn't proud of. But he always put the sake of others ahead of his own personal needs and desires. All of these young mutants relied on his school for support and sanctuary. Where would they be without this place?

"I'm not going to defend myself. I did what I thought was necessary, as some of you have done in the past." He said tersely, looking directly at Logan. "I've said my piece. As far as I'm concerned this subject is closed." Turning, he exited the medical wing.

() () () ()

"There's no similarity, so stop trying to find it." Samantha said, standing a few feet beyond the door inside the library, where she found the Professor staring at a bust that had been sculpted in memory of him. On the table there appeared to be a book spread wide open.

Charles rotated round and took a step back astonished at Samantha's sudden presence in the library. Despite coming to some common ground, she'd avoided him for the remainder of the day. He continued to stare at her as she moved silently in the room. She wore a flawless white satin night gown that reached just above her ankles. Her face was scrubbed clean and her long, black hair was styled in a French braid.

"Come to chide me again?" he asked, his hands shoved deep in his designer pants. "I've already had enough of that for today."

Samantha smiled wryly. "On the contrary," she went to the fiction section. "I've come to get a book that caught my interest earlier in the day. I would like to read a few more chapters before going to bed." She turned and pulled out the text from a shelf just above her head.

Charles seized the opportunity, he gathered pictures lain on the table and placed them in the album. He didn't want her to see that he'd been looking at them. He didn't want to hear her mockery. He froze as he turned. She was quick, to his surprise, standing at his side with an apathetic look on her face. He caught his breath, bowled over by how lovely she was. Far more than he'd previously guessed or didn't want to. She had a sweet oval face, cobalt eyes, and pliant pink lips. She still had the youthful characteristics of the young girl he rescued from the insane asylum.

Unique, Samantha's powers emerged at the tender age of nine. When the visions had become too much, overrunning her life and altering her perception of reality, her parents shut her away. At age twelve he found, reached out to her, and brought her back to the mansion—protected her.

It was then Wolverine's crude remarks from this morning came back in a vengeance.

He gritted his teeth. He turned to withdraw to his bedroom. Samantha' voice pricked with an air of amusement. "I was wrong," she said, holding a photo that had fallen to the ground. "There is a resemblance. Jesus, if I didn't believe in doppelgangers, I'd say you two were almost twins." She looked at him pointedly; marked the strained expression on his face.

She held the picture out to him. "Is this you?"

He took it stuffing the old photo in the album. "You should know that already," he said simply.

"Actually I do," she said, her face impassive. "It's you, the real you. Oxford, 1962. You'd just recently graduated with high honors and were currently working on your thesis on mutation."

"Impressive."

"That's nothing. You should see what I can do when I'm really trying."

"But you haven't truly perfected it," he said, going to her, "which is why you suffer with mental aftershocks whenever you encounter people or objects. You were able to control it until recently." Charles rested the album on the table. He hoped this was the opportune moment to offer Samantha his assistance. "I can help you if you would let me."

"I don't need your help."

"Then what do you need?"

"Solitude."

Charles smiled. "If you plan to teach you won't find that here."

She angled her head backwards, her eyes coming close, studying his face with a mild interest. Jamie McPherson likeness to the young Charles Xavier was striking. Parallel. It was though he was a long lost twin born forty years later. It made her wonder if a member of the Xavier family resided in Scotland.

"The thought did cross my mind," he said, catching the offensive look she gave him, knowing it was because he'd read her thoughts. "I asked Dr. McTaggert to run a DNA screen to see if there might be a compatibility.

"And was there?" she asked, curious.

Charles shook his head, "No."

Another question hovered on her lips; she curled her lower lip back into her teeth, unsure if she should ask. "Ask me," Charles said softly, his head bowing slightly close to her face.

Her eyes dimmed in annoyance, exhaling. "I wish you wouldn't that."

"I'm sorry."

"Does he have family?"

"Yes, parents, but no wife or children."

Her eyes flashed. "Do they know you possess him? Or did you even bother to ask their permission before you abducted their son."

Charles strived for patience, walking a couple of steps away. "Let's not start this again. I don't want to discuss it anymore."

"Why? It seems to me I'm the only one here who won't allow you to evade the subject."

He felt anger swell in chest, never imagining he could meet a woman so disagreeable. She wouldn't let the matter die. Moira didn't antagonize him too much about it. Maybe it was be she had loved him at one point. He inhaled, strived for calm. "I didn't think about the consequences, perhaps I didn't want to." He turned to look at her, his face pleading. "All I knew was I wasn't ready to die. I have some much more I have left to do. Can you understand that?"

Samantha's mouth thinned. He looked sincere. She wanted to pacify him, trust him when he said that what he did was for 'the greater good'. She couldn't. She had placed her confidence in him once and he had deceived her.

"I won't hold this against you anymore," she stated quietly. "But don't think I've accepted it." Hugging the book to her chest, she padded quickly out the library.

Charles started to protest but opted for the silent path. An argument would simply create walls instead of building bridges. He jolted slightly, the library door slamming shut. It was useless to try to convince her. She believed what she believed about him. Nothing he spoke would change her mind on that fact. Exhaling, Charles gathered the album and adjourned to his bedroom.

Once there, he placed the album gently on the desk, and went to the cabinet. He removed a crystal glass and decanter filled with chardonnay. He poured half a glass. He down the glass and served himself another and then exhaled. Tomorrow, he thought to himself. Tomorrow was another day.

() () () ()

Lieutenant General Robert S. Evans yanked at moist toilette out a pouch his wife Bonnie provided. "I can't believe I had to shake that damn mutant's hand. I'll be damned if I don't get fleas."

A smile upturned her lips, "Don't you think you're acting a little overdramatic."

He glared at her finding no sense of humor in the matter. "You didn't have to shake his hands."

Bonnie turned to look at her husband with gleaming, penetrating green eyes. "It was you he wanted to meet darling, not me," she drawled.

"I had no appetite the whole damn time."

She clucked her tongue. "A pity," she said. "The White House serves the best meals." She took interest in the outside world as their car rolled to a checkpoint. Handing his ID to the security personnel, Robert Evans waited five agonizing minutes before they were allowed to depart. He turned his car onto 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, merging with the light traffic on the road.

"Williams won't get a second term after this stunt," he snorted, recalling the abysmal hour he stood and watched the President elect Dr. Hank McCoy ambassador to the United Nations. His stomach still coiled knowing a mutant had been elevated to such status of power.

"Don't be too sure," she countered, softly. "His approval ratings have gone up a notch. And with the Cure on hand, we still have the advantage. Any mutant rebel rouser can be easily sedated like that freak Magneto. You, yourself, said he verified that Magneto was no longer a threat to national security." She placed a hand on his thigh, massaging it enticingly. She unbuckled her seatbelt and encircled his neck with her arm, kissing his cheek. "You can focus on the real terrorist."

She'd had three glasses of wine at the State Dinner. She was feeling extremely randy tonight. She captured his ear and sucked on it. Her hand sliding up his thigh, she started to play with his belt buckle.

Robert was in no mood. He shoved her back into her seat. "Don't smile yet. It's not effective."

Bonnie blinked. "What's not effective?"

"The cure," his jaw throbbed. "It's wearing off."

Bonnie gasped. "How do you know for sure? Who told you this?"

"A reliable source." He weaved his car passed a pick-up truck and sped through amber colored stop light before it turned read.

"So," Bonnie quivered, feeling slightly ill. "What happens now?"

"Plan B," Robert muttered under his breath.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary: **Former student Samantha Kane returns to the X-Mansion after a rough patch in life. Upon arrival she encounters some unsettling changes including a very youthful Charles Xavier. Meanwhile, trouble stirs as the government reconvenes in the wake of the disaster on Alcatraz Island. Plans for mutant hunting machines emerge and the Cure soon begins to wane with alarming side effects.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own X-Men. I wish I did then I'd be rich and content. I own Samantha Kane's character. At least I think I do.

**Rating: **T

**X-Men: Divided We Fall**

Samantha shook out a Donna Karan blouse and skirt to hang in the closet. One of the numerous designer clothes she owned. After a couple days rest, she finally got motivated enough to do some serious unpacking. Unfortunately, she was having difficulty putting away the immense amount of clothes and shoes in her possession. Just then she was alerted to a knock on her bedroom door. Crossing the floor, she turned the knob and encountered the same mean spirited guy she'd traded words with in the kitchen. In his grasp were two more bags of luggage.

"You forgot these outside. They were hiding in the bushes," he grunted, marching into her bedroom like a minimum wage bellboy.

She remain planted where she was, an arm cocked up on a doorframe, while she leaned casually in the entryway. "Thanks, I thought for a moment the cab driver had ripped me off." She tipped her head up quizzically. "I didn't get your name by the way."

"The name's Logan," he barked.

Arching a brow, a mock grin on her face, she said, "Just Logan?"

His eyes grew bleak, "Yeah, just Logan, what?"

"Nothing…sorry," she shook her head, her smile broadening. "I'm Samantha Kane."

"I know, the Professor mentioned you." Logan took in the numerous bags on the floor. The clothes piled high on the bed like a bargain basement warehouse. This woman had clearly come stacked and packed with enough garments to open her own department store. "There's a lot of shit here."

Samantha started to laugh. "This is just a fraction of what I got. The rest is tucked away in storage. I'm thinking about asking the Professor for a room with a walk-in closet."

His eyebrows came together. "This is a school, not the Plaza Hotel."

"So, I've gathered, but it wouldn't hurt to try." She shrugged nonchalantly. "Besides, I need to discuss the terms of this contract. I didn't go to law school for nothing. Do you know where I can find him?"

Wolverine looked at her as though she'd asked a stupid question. "Lower levels. He's probably working on Cerebro." She twirled in her leather Prada boots, taking a few steps down the hall when she heard Logan say, "It won't do you any good. Only authorized faculty members can get down there."

Samantha double-back, careening her neck to peek through the open door, "And I'm guessing you're authorized."

"Yep," he replied swaggering towards her. He studied her carefully, a scowl on his face, leaving her to wonder if the guy ever smiled. "What's your angle?"

She frowned, head tipping in confusion. "Angle?"

"Storm and I found out what happened? How he used you and your powers and all that?"

"And you think I'm here with an agenda?"

"Don't know," his voice deepened, "You tell me?"

Immediately, she went ram rod straight, her face tightening with rage. "I don't have to tell you damn thing, except that I was victim. You should remember that the next time you start having speculations, making accusations." Samantha let out an aggravated huff and said, "Don't worry I'll find a way down there somehow."

She heard him swore. Hurried footsteps took chase next. "Come on, I'll take you down there."

"It's nice to know you can be a gentleman when you try," she said, mildly pleased.

"Don't push your fuckin' luck."

() () () ()

Charles was fully aware the dangerous risk he was about to undertake. His psychic range was not where it once was. Not at the moment. Nevertheless, he could not waver from an overwhelming desire to see how far he'd come since his days on Muir Island. Even more, he wanted to locate Erik. How was his old friend fairing. Had he eluded the military? Logan told him what he and Hank had done. What lengths they'd gone to put end his mad quest for mutant domination. It grieved him to watch what he had become. To watch their friendship fall apart because of differences in ideals and opinions.

The memory of that day on the beach in Cuba still haunted him. Disturbingly, now in the last few months than they ever did before. It was on those shores he'd lost his ability to walk and a good friend.

He stood in the midst of Cerebro. The massive spherical device filled the basement of the mansion. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Charles walked to the end of the platform, standing before the computer mainframe. He ran his hand on the cold surface. He inspected it closely and made a mental note to have a chair constructed and bolted to the platform since he no longer used a wheelchair.

Charles chuckled, somewhat amused by the thought. "Well, my dear," he smoothed his fingers over the computer keys. "I'm home." Without reservation he picked up the helmet.

"Are you sure that's wise," he heard Samantha ask and paused; the helmet hovering above his head. "After all, it's been a long time since you've used Cerebro."

His eyes slid close. "Logan let you down here?"

"Yes, he did," she flicked her head, tossing her hair of her shoulder. "I never did ask how you were able to assume your role as Charles Xavier. I mean, you don't look the least bit over seventy."

The edge of Charles' mouth curled as he returned the helmet to the cradle, he turned to stare at her. "One my students is a skilled hacker. Katherine Pryde, you'll be meeting her and rest of X-Men when summer comes to an end. Together, she and Storm were able to forge documents."

"A driver license, birth certificate…" she strolled further inside.

"Everything I need to reside in the United States."

"The way things are going these days," she said. "With all that's happening in Arizona, they'll be asking for a blood sample."

"Let's hope it doesn't come down to that."

They stood in silence for a moment. Charles watched while Samantha slowly turned around, looking at the massive chamber at every angle. "I've never been in here before."

"What do you think?"

"Impressive," she said in amazement and gazed at the Professor. "It might be too early for you to do what I think you're about to do."

He frowned, "Why do you say that?"

Steadily, she came to stop in front of him, azure eyes sharp and expressive. "The photo." Unable to see where she was going, his brows crinkled, perplexed. "When you took the photo of you from Oxford, your fingers brushed my hand." She paused a second to catch her breath. "I saw your conversation with Ororo. You're not ready for Cerebro, Professor."

Charles noted her use of his title as an extraordinary breakthrough; yet he maintained a virtually calm state. "Being ready is a matter of opinion," he rotated sharply, taking the helmet by the hands. "Cerebro has the capability to expand a telepath's faculties not suppress."

"So, what this, a little kick to your powers?"

"You might say that," he looked at her sharply, before sighing. "I have questions that need answering."

"Fine. Don't steal another person's boy if you die," and she moved to leave.

"If you're so concerned you can stay, ensure I don't suffer brain damage," he offered.

"I'm not Jean," she said. "I'm not a doctor."

Charles felt a pang of grief at the mention of her name. His mind locked with an empty vessel lying in the medical wing. Weeks of trying break through the barrier in her mind had been futile. Lowering the helmet, he began to program the machine to specific functions. "I never said you were," he replied.

She took a few steps to him, hugging her chest. A chill tickled down her spine at the sound of Cerebro humming to life. She cleared her throat. "Are you sure you don't want me to leave?"

"No," he answered. "Just don't move."

Darkness consumed the chamber before blasting into streams of flashing light. Samantha roped her arms tighter to her chest. She felt she might fall off the edge as images came and went. The whole room seemed to rise and fall and sweep in endless directions before settling, tranquil, silent. A multitude of tiny bright lights shaped the continents of the world, twinkling like billions of stars in the heaven.

Charles was willing to address her curiosity, "These lights represent every living being on the planet, Samantha. White represents human." The blinking dots altered in color. "The red are mutants. We're not alone in this world."

"Like I didn't already know that?" she replied.

His lip curled. "I'm surprised you did. You tend to act as if the whole world is falling down around you. And that you're the only one with problems."

She let out a snort, annoyed he belittled her like she was a child. "You might feel that way when you're parents abandon you to mental asylum and the person you come to trust uses you."

"I think feeling sorry for yourself is getting old. I think it's time you moved on." He said while operating Cerebro, though his focus soon became a challenge.

She stiffened. "Why don't stop and let me out of here? Then you can get back to whatever you're doing."

"So, you can browbeat me on my life, but I can't say anything about yours. Anyways, I cannot stop now, I've come too far." He set his mind on one person in particular, combing each district in New York with great speed. Samantha saw his shoulders buckle a bit under the strain. She wanted to go to him but was unsure of the dire results if she moved.

"Where are you Erik," Charles whispered slowly. His eyes glazed over, his mind expanding. The entire state of New York, millions of minds flooded. With some effort, he pushed through the first psychic onslaught that hit him hard. "Where are you?"

At first he thought his attempt futile. Erik could be anywhere. What possessed him to believe he was here in the city…in the state even. After a few moments he grew weary, the intensity of Cerebro taking its toll. Perhaps Samantha was right. He wasn't ready. Just when he was going to call it quits he saw the faint blimp of Erik's aura. His old friend was alive and he was in trouble.

Retreating, he staggered backwards. Unknowingly, Samantha ran to his side and eased him onto the floor of the platform. "You pushed too far," she admonished and gasped when she saw blood run from his nose. Using the sleeve of her shirt, she wiped it away. "Jesus, we need to get you to the medical wing."

"No," Charles gagged. "I'm fine."

"Like hell you are," she snapped. "You're fuckin' bleeding. You could be suffering from a brain hemorrhage. We need to get you to the medical wing." She tried to get him to stand only have her frantic movements halted by Charles taking hold of her hands. Her breath caught as his essence poured into her. Images of the past, present, and an uncertain future. She wrenched free.

"Listen to me, listen to me," he said. "We have to get to Wyckoff Heights Medical Center."

"Good. A hospital," she said, "now you're talking sense."

() () () ()

The double swinging doors of the Wyckoff Heights emergency room burst open with three paramedics charging inside. A gurney weaved and bobbled as they worked on a man going in and out of consciousness. A portly, black woman with short hair and wearing light blue scrubs ran over.

"What do you have for me gentlemen?" she asked, plugging her ears with her stethoscope.

"Adult male, late forties to early fifties possibly suffered a myocardial infarction. Neighbors heard screaming through the walls and dialed 911."

"Alright, get him into exam room one." Together with the paramedics she moved him onto a stable bed. "Lena, I want an EKG and Alex start him on a nitroglycerin drip." She leaned close to pass a tiny flashlight over the eyes of man who was clearing panicking. "Did you fellows get a name on this guy?"

One of the paramedics replied, "I didn't get a name. He kept muttering over and over in another language. It sounded German almost but I couldn't be too sure. It's all I could get out of him."

"Hmm, well, we'll worry about the name later," she said, continuing to perform her task.

Alex returned with a nitro drip and proceeded to insert an IV into the man's wrist. "Alex wait! Dr. Johnson," Lena handed over the EKG sheet. "This guy is not having a heart attack."

Dr. Johnson's eyes streamed across the reading. "Jesus," she cried. "We could've killed this man. Good call Lena." Machines started to scream as readings on the heart monitor spiked. "He's having a seizure!" She rushed to his side and tried to hold him down with other personnel.

The bed started to shake, levitating suddenly off the floor. Dr. Johnson watched in horror as her stethoscope took flight along with other medical paraphernalia and began circling the room. Cupboards banged open and close and canisters bearing metal covers crashed to the floor.

"Oh my god, he's a mutant!" Lena cried, hands coming to her mouth.

Jaw set, frustration and anxiety mounting, Dr. Johnson struggled to maintain a level of calm and authority. "Alex," her tone set, hard and even. "I want you to give him 2cc of Estazolam." He'd already inserted a peripheral cannula; all he had to do was give a dose of the sedative to calm the patient. To her astonishment, the needle snapped like a twig as he loaded the syringe, and Alex was sent flying back into the curtains and crashed into the wall.

"Lena! Call security," she screamed as she thrown aside. Unfortunately, the nurse stood frightened and watched the mutant bolt out the doors, startling other patients and medical personnel.

Heart pounding madly in his chest, his eyes wild, Erik headed for the exit. He yanked out the peripheral cannula IV still lodge in the vein in his wrist, sucking blood that pooled. He ripped off leads still stuck to his chest. He screeched to a halt as security officers rushed inside, removing their side arms.

"Sir, calm down." One of them stated. "There is no need to panic. We're here to help you."

Lena came scampering out the exam room, shaking to the core. Eyes filled with tears she cried out, "He's one of those mutants! He tried to kill us!"

A mutant. It was just grounds for action. One of the guards—a racist, bigot—did not hesitate to show his disdain for the mutant race. And with the events on Alcatraz still fresh in the media he opened fire. Instinct fueled Erik; although confused by his present situation and what was happening to him physically, he stretched his hand. The bullets bounced in a multitude of directions, one striking an innocent bystander.

His partner reared to life. "You stupid fuckin' idiot!" He slapped his friend's gun hand down. He glimpsed over at the woman weeping violently, a nurse and doctor was attending her. It was a shoulder wound. She was lucky. "Are you trying to kill someone?"

"He's a mutant. He must be put down. All of them!"

"You saw what he just did," he sneered in response. "Do you really expect to frighten him with your little pee shooter. Go contact the police before someone else get hurt or worse!"

His friend glared before turning sharply and stomping angrily away.

() () () ()

"Looks like someone's got the party started," Logan smirked, gazing out the window while the X-Jet circled above the hospital. Below, he saw scores of police cars, fire engine trucks, and a huge blockage cordoning off both ends of the street. "Whoever this guy is he's got everyone down there rattled."

"Storm, activate the stealth mode," Charles instructed. He pressed two fingers to the side of his temple. Closing his eyes, he searched the hospital for Erik's whereabouts. He failed to enlighten the others on the reason why they were making this impromptu trip to the heart of Brooklyn. He knew of their disdain for Magneto and thought it best to keep silent till later.

"Already done," she replied and guided the ship over the rooftop.

"Set her down gently," said Charles. "We don't want to draw too much attention."

Her lips pressed upward. "You act like this is the first time I've ever flown." She carefully set the X-Jet down and lowered gangplank.

Charles unbuckled his seat belt and got out the chair. Erik's thoughts were erratic. He was having trouble reaching him. "Samantha, come with me."

She blinked, stunned. "Me?"

He nodded. "Yes, I could use your help. Storm, Logan wait here. If anything happens I want you to take off. No sense in all of us getting into trouble."

"Professor," Samantha objected. "They have more experience in the field than I do. I don't have defensive powers like them."

"She's right Professor. Sam is not prepared for anything like this." Storm turned in her seat, a look of concern in her eyes. "Let me go with you."

"I'll take your concerns under advisement but right now we need a more passive approach."

"And Storm isn't passive," Logan barked.

"This subject is closed. Samantha is coming with me and that is final. You've all seem to forget who started the X-Men in the first place. Ergo, I make the decisions." Charles said giving them a sharp look. He turned to Samantha. "Let's go." Without another word he descended the gangplank.

Samantha opened her mouth to protest but was waved to silence by Storm. "Just go. He's difficult if he doesn't get his way."

"So I've noticed," she said and followed Charles to the roof.

The air was stifling. An hour long flight in the cool air conditioning made adjusting unbearable for the moment. They quickly moved across the roof. Samantha heard the roar of traffic and sirens rising from below. She pondered who this mutant was. Why the big scare? Then again, to humanity, any mutant presence was cause for a scare.

Charles turned the knob of the rooftop door. To his fortune, it moved and the door opened. No doubt he'd feel like an idiot if he had to turn back and ask Logan for assistance. He and Samantha went down the dimly stairwell. He mentally scoured the building. "Anything?"

"No. It's too much," he staggered; Cerebro had definitely worked him over. "There're too many people still in the building. We need to wait until it's completely evacuated.

She caught him by the elbow. "You should've stayed and rested while Storm and Logan went to fetch this person."

"If they knew who we were looking for they would object most assuredly."

"Who are looking for?" she asked.

He came clean. "Magneto."

Startled, Samantha gasped. "You're kidding."

"No. He's right here in the hospital."

Her eyes glimmered, "So that's why you wanted me to come along. You knew Storm and Logan would freak."

"Yes. And the last thing we need is a violent confrontation, especially between him and Logan." He closed his eyes again this time gaining a better connection. "I've found him. He's on the third floor. Oh my god, it couldn't possibly."

"What is it?"

He looked at her, alarm rising in the depths of his blue eyes. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you. We must hurry. The commanding officer has just dispatched SWAT and given a shoot to kill order." Hurriedly, they took the stairs almost two at a time. Samantha was panting heavily by the time they reached their destination. By then, the hospital had been evacuated and was relatively quiet. She hugged the walls, trailing Charles down a hallway, letting out a breath once they encountered SWAT team outside one of the rooms.

Charles narrowed his eyes. "They have him cornered in that room." He sensed their fear and blind hatred.

"How do you suppose we're going to get in there?" she whispered, counting ten men dressed in black, armed to the teeth with automatic assault weapons.

"We're going to walk right pass them. That's how?"

Samantha thought he'd lost his mind. "What?"

"You forget that I am a telepath," he grinned, watching the men freeze into position, and he walked casually to them. He weaved through the throng of bodies without a hitch and beckoned Samantha to come forward. "It's alright but we must hurry. I can only hold them off for so long."

She rushed to him taking his hand, stunned by the intense heat that pulsed from his palm. Her heart skipped when his fingers closed. With a nod, Charles used his psychic powers to appeal to the man who was clearly on edge on the other side.

_Erik._

His head darted in numerous directions, alarmed by the voice resounding in his mind. _Who are you?_

_It's me Erik. It's Charles._

_Charles? _He darkened, fury building. _You expect me to believe that Charles is dead._

_No, Erik. I am alive. I survived…somehow. It will be difficult for you to accept but you must believe what I am telling you._

It was then the Professor made a mental note to Samantha to open the door. In front of them stood an agitated man holding a scalpel in his hand. He stood tall and strong, his chestnut hair lightly dusted with silver at the root. His face was proud and hard. A few wrinkles etched his brow and the corner of his eyes. Samantha looked at the Professor then at the man before her. This guy nowhere resembled the Magneto she'd seen on the television and newspapers.

He was young…so to speak.

Erik reacted, his fingers curling tightly around the surgical tool. He felt a tiny hum course through his fingers as his flesh connected with metal. Glaring at the man who dared to call himself Charles Xavier he swore in German.

Charles held up his hands coming to him slowly. _Erik, it is me. I know this body is not what you intended to see, but with the old me currently nonexistent. This was all that was available. It is me. _

He proceeded to show then images of past, the days at the mansion as they prepared to face Sebastian Shaw. Most importantly, he showed him images of his childhood—things no one else knew—before the trauma of WWII.

Tears sprang to Erik's eyes. Shrinking inward, he lowered the scalpel. "Charles."

"Yes, Erik."

Erik swallowed, relief taking hold. "Something's happening to me…look at my face…"

"I see that," said Charles taking his friend's hand to remove the small blade, setting it aside. "I'm here to help you. We're going to get you out of here." He clapped his hand on his bare shoulder. "We'll find out what is going on. I promise."


End file.
